


Exposure

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Coping, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 01:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9943262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Your roots are beginning to show. Idly, you touch them. Trace the auburn that's mistaken for a dark sienna brown. You are – you were – a hairdresser. You know these things. You know about mixing the chemicals to yield a satisfactory result; you know how to transform a woman by adding layers or volume to accentuate her features. You loved that you could contribute to another soul's metamorphosis. It made you feel worth something. [ 2nd POV; takes place during S1. ]





	

**Author's Note:**

> With this fic, I just wanted to pay homage to where it all began with this revival. It's amazing to consider all the trials and tribulations Bea has gone through since the season premiere of Wentworth. I always found her relatable in that first season; in her, I saw my mother which made the show so much more personable to me. Even my mom adores this show.

You drag your teeth across your lip and wonder how you got here. Trembling hands clutch the sink that's fixed in place. The metal feels cool beneath your sweaty palms. When you lift your head, you hardly recognize the woman staring back at you in the mirror.

Your roots are beginning to show. Idly, you touch them. Trace the auburn that's mistaken for a dark sienna brown. You are – you _were_ – a hairdresser. You know these things. You know about mixing the chemicals to yield a satisfactory result; you know how to transform a woman by adding layers or volume to accentuate her features. You loved that you could contribute to another soul's metamorphosis. It made you feel worth something.

Your name is Bea Smith and you are an attempted murderess.

Yet, murderess sounds too poetic for a woman of humble origins. Nor is murderer the right word for it brings tears to your eyes and your entire body trembles. The shakes end abruptly. You are not mourning your abuser. You mourn the painful life you led and you mourn the future that you have lost, now replaced by Cellblock H with its rules and its panic button that you mustn't touch.

Your reflection grimaces at you. You think of the drugs thrust at you on day one by an anarchist wannabe living a hedonistic life within these cells. Top Dog, they call her. Her name is Franky Doyle. To you, she's hardly a threat. You'll discover, within the years to come, that she is but an angry girl who never coped with the abandonment of her father. Somehow, that makes you think about your beautiful daughter, Debbie. She has your shy smile, but her father's eyes.

You don't regret it. Not really. He deserved to suffer. You let him live for Debbie's sake. She didn't need to lose one parent, let alone two. Deep down, you know that he should have died. You honestly wish he did. Your memory replays your husband – your abuser – choking on the exhaust of his car: the prison he deserved to be sentenced to. It reminds you of all the times he wrapped his hands around your throat. At the resurrection of something so painful, you shiver.

Your mascara runs and you thank your salty tears. They are the only thing that seems real in this hellhole. With a long-winded sigh, you reach for the faucet. You start the water at freezing. Then, gradually, switch it to scalding. The burn reminds you that you are in a prison rather than the comfort (there was no comfort there save for your beautiful girl) of your own home. From sensory deprivation, you hiss. You still imagine the blood on your hands. You can't wash it away.

Behind you, a presence lingers. You've never been superstitious or religious. Despite the veil of shock, your senses tell you that there's a guard outside of your cell. In the right light, he's handsome, but he's married – not that you've put much thought into other men. You try to ignore him, but he's still there with his hands in front of himself, folded in front of himself. Mr. Jackson seems like a good man. He cares about the other women. There's warmth in his eyes and not the cruel mockery that you've seen on the stoic masks of other guards.

Shakily, you shut off the water. The faucet squeaks in retaliation. You think of the woman released from her frozen isolation. Jacs Holt is a looming threat. You hope you don't become her. You don't suppose you will leather like her with an empire under your arm. That's never been your dream. Your only dream is to see your daughter blossom into a beautiful, young woman, free of all the pain she's endured.

Attempted murder is a heavy sentence. You try not to dwell on your other charges. Your lawyer tells you not to worry. Your lawyer tells you that the jury sympathizes with battered women, but this is not so. Lady Justice is a cruel mistress. You shouldn't be in here for self-defense. For protecting yourself. For protecting your little girl.

With a poorly restrained sob, you cover your face with your still wet hands. This place reminds you of home where every move was akin to stepping on thin ice or shattered glass 'lest he snap at you. It's a dark hole you find yourself in, Bea, and you have to pull yourself together for Debbie, but you're scared. You're so fucking _afraid_.

 

 

 

 


End file.
